


The Immitigable Path of Fate

by edna_blackadder



Category: Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/pseuds/edna_blackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There must have been some magic in that old machine she kept, for when she pressed down on its keys, Harold Crick began to count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Immitigable Path of Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kormantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/gifts).



> Thanks, as always, to S, for being the most amazing and patient beta ever.

Karen isn’t certain if this is a second date, a first date, or even a date at all.  She knows she is nervous, whatever it is, but she also knows that she needn’t be nervous.  She shivers as the cold wind blows early flurries into her face, but she knows the flurries are not the cause.  So afraid of one who’s so afraid of you, what you gonna do, puts in a voice in her head, a voice not her own.  This is a woman whose voice is one part raw power, two parts melody, all parts beautiful.  The song is only vaguely familiar, in that “I must have absorbed it somehow” sort of way.  Karen shuts her eyes, trying to recall a bit more.  Instead, she finds herself wondering what her own voice sounded like in Harold Crick’s head.

Her eyes are still closed when Jules arrives.  He waves a few snowflakes away from his unprotected face and wonders how or even if he ought to alert her to his presence.  He considers touching her arm, and imagines her eyes springing open, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, her body relaxing as he reassures her with a smile that she has nothing to be embarrassed about, even as her face reddens further.  He imagines her smile reassuring him in turn, and emboldened by this, he imagines drawing her into his arms—

He shakes his head.  If he is very lucky, one day he may rouse Karen Eiffel from deep writerly thought with a touch and a smile and be rewarded with the chance to draw her into his arms.  That day is not today; if he pushes his boundaries with Karen now, when she is still so raw, at best he will cause her to jump out of her skin, and at worst he may send her running back into seclusion and chain-smoking.

He considers simply waiting her reverie out.  He’s content to watch her think, to imagine what sort of beautiful tragedy might at this moment be taking shape in her mind.  She could be crafting the most amazing novel in some years, and he would never want to interrupt that.  But if she opens her eyes and sees him standing there and staring, that could backfire, too.

In the end Jules chooses, as so many romantic leads do, the lamest possible option.  “Hi,” he says, clearing his throat.

Karen’s eyes snap open, and her cheeks grow hot despite the wind and the snowflakes, and she feels her heart start to beat faster.  Jules smiles, and asks her, in what he hopes is a suave, playful tone, “Planning your next great work?”

Karen shakes her head, even more embarrassed.  “Actually, I was wondering what my voice sounded like to Harold Crick.  A song lyric came into my head just now, just this one little fragment of a song I must know but don’t, consciously.  This other woman’s voice in my head just made me think about my voice in his.  That’s all,” she adds unnecessarily, wanting to just sink into the pavement, and then an image comes into her mind, unbidden, of a person dying encased in concrete.  No, that’s ridiculous—sinking in quicksand.  That could be a literary death, if done right.  An expert safari guide...

Jules nods along with Karen’s explanation, but notices a change in her expression shortly after she finishes speaking, as though she is suddenly more sober.  “Shall we?” he asks, and Karen nods, gratefully.  They walk into the bakery together.  The wind has gotten stronger, and the door slams behind them.

This time Ana Pascal is behind the counter herself.  Karen knows her immediately, and Jules recognizes her too.  Ana is just as bright and cheerful as she ought to be, and Karen feels moved, watching this woman she deliberately wrote as the embodiment of all that is wild and wonderful and alive go about her work perfectly embodying these things.

Except now Karen and Jules are first in line, and Ana is wondering why they are staring at her instead of ordering.  “Tea and scones, please,” Karen says quickly.  At least I wasn’t staring at her breasts, she thinks, remembering Harold’s first encounter with Ms. Pascal, word for word.  Ana serves them pleasantly enough, and they sit down.

“Is it wrong for me to—to marvel at her?” Karen blurts out, when they are out of earshot.  “Is that terribly narcissistic?”

Jules shakes his head.  “No.  Well.  Maybe yes, a little.  But you should be proud.”

Karen flushes again, and she moves for her tea.  “Thank you,” she says, her voice smaller than usual.

Jules smiles.  “You’re most welcome.  How’s the rewriting going?”

“Not bad.  It’d be a bit faster if I weren’t sidetracked half the time by the agonies of not smoking.  And if Penny weren’t insisting I spend at least half an hour outside every day.”

“Assistants,” Jules says, shaking his head again.

“Terminally sensible, every last one of them,” Karen says, and Jules laughs.  Karen feels a smile crack her own face, still warm and getting warmer and undoubtedly redder.

“Do you think you still have influence over him?” Jules asks, and Karen starts.

“I—I have no idea,” she admits.  “I’ve wondered...everything there is to wonder.  I still don’t know if he was always real, and I took over his life, or if I created him and reality obliged.  Nor do I know if any of the others were ever real.  Is it me, or did my typewriter decide it sympathized with Harold’s wristwatch entirely too much?”

“You could try finding out,” Jules suggests idly.  “Write a sequel.  Harold wouldn’t mind.  The only thing he took issue with in _Death and Taxes_ was the “imminent death” bit.”

Karen shakes her head.  “Just three weeks ago I could not wait to kill Harold Crick.  I wanted so badly to just be done with him.  And now I would love to write a whole endless series, but you know I can’t do it.”

Jules nods.  “I know you can’t.”

“He’s real.”

“You made him real.  _Death and Taxes_ was your masterpiece, Karen.  Maybe that’s what did it.”

Karen smiles.  “I notice you’re still using the past tense.”

Jules smiles back.  “Let me read your rewrites.”

Karen shakes her head, positive that her face must now be a record-breaking shade of red.  “No,” she says playfully, “not yet.”

  


*

  


  
A few hours later, Karen pokes at her shrimp with vegetables and looks out the window.  It’s snowing again, still not very much, but just enough for scattered flurries to be visible under the street light.  Karen stares at this sight as if transfixed, but her mind is elsewhere.  Penny sits across from her, working on a plate of sweet and sour chicken.  “How was your date?” Penny asks, between mouthfuls.

“It wasn’t a date,” Karen says, fumbling with her chopsticks.

“You should really work on that poker face, Kay, because you haven’t got one.”  Penny helps herself to more rice.  “What did you talk about?”

“Howld,” Karen replies.  Then she drinks some water, swallows the shrimp, and says, “Harold.  Jules wonders if I might still have influence on his life, if I were to write more.”

“You can’t do that,” Penny says sharply, alarmed.

“I know that,” Karen reassures her, “and so does Jules.  But I am a writer, Penny.  I need to write, but unless I find out just what happened here and how it can be avoided in the future, I can’t write anything.”

Penny chews thoughtfully.  “Forget the future, Kay.  You might as well ask if your rewrites are changing Harold’s past.  I mean, if you wished Harold Crick into existence, and reality bent to your will, let’s assume he didn’t just come into being in his thirties.  The past would have changed, accommodating Harold’s retroactive birth and life until now.”

Karen abruptly stops trying to get her chopsticks around a particularly stubborn pea pod.  For a moment she feels as though her heart has stopped.  It’s true, of course, and she can’t believe she hasn’t thought of it.  For a moment she resents her newfound happiness.  It’s distracted her.  She should have thought of this, and didn’t.

“You’re right,” she says, her face serious and voice ice cold.  “You’re absolutely right.  I need to see him.”

Penny watches, bemused, as Karen gathers her drafts and runs out the door, forgetting to put on her winter coat.  Despite the snow, Penny doesn’t expect her to come back for it.  She carefully empties the remains of Karen’s food into a tupperware container and places it in the fridge.  Karen didn’t eat anywhere near enough of it, but at least she was eating.  Eating, dating, and most importantly, not smoking.  Baby steps, Penny reminds herself.  Baby steps.

  


*

  


  
Shivering head to foot, with unnoticed snowflakes in her hair, Karen realizes as soon as she arrives at the hospital that she’s come at a bad time.  Ana is sitting by Harold’s bedside, and Dave is also with them.

Karen’s first thought is to run.  She’ll wait in the bathroom, or something, until they leave.  Unfortunately, she comes up with her cunning plan too late.  Harold has caught her eye, and while Ana hasn’t seen her, she has seen Harold’s changed expression.

“Ms. Eiffel?” Harold says, and Ana and Dave both turn to follow his gaze.  He’s surprised to see her, and more than a little wary, but he smiles at her anyway.  Karen has visited him exactly once before, to tell him why she could not kill him.  She left in tears that day, but Harold knows they were good tears.  He also knows from Professor Hilbert that she has probably seen the sun more in the last three weeks than in the last ten years, and he’s been content not to hear from her personally.  She has her own life to restart, and he hopes she’s happier now.

But she looks as anxious as ever at the moment.  Harold dimly recalls Professor Hilbert was meeting her for tea and scones again today, and he hopes they didn’t have a fight, or anything like that.  Then he remembers that Ana and Dave are here, and they are even more confused by her presence than he is.  “Please come in,” he says, trying to force his face to bend itself into a small smile.  “Have a seat.”

“I can wait,” Karen says quickly, but it’s too late.  Ana has recognized her.

“Hey, I know you,” she says, standing up and walking towards her.  “You were at the bakery this morning, with some guy who looked like a professor.  How do you know Harold?”

Ana is smiling warmly at Karen, which only makes her feel more impossibly awkward.  Is it possible for something to be more impossible?  Grammatically, certainly not, but Karen feels that practically, it must be.  “I—um—we met at—” Karen can practically feel her brain jam.

To her relief, Harold interrupts.  “Ana,” he says quietly, “remember when I told you that I knew it was all going to be okay, but that if I told you how I knew, you wouldn’t believe me?”

Ana nods, slowly.  “Yes.”  As she answers, Dave stands up too.

“Um,” he says, “this sounds kind of intense.  Should I go?”

Harold shakes his head.  “No.  Everyone stays.  You both deserve to know.”  He takes a deep breath, then says, “Ana, Dave, that’s Karen Eiffel.  She’s one of the greatest writers alive today, and I’m one of her characters.”

“What?” Dave asks, just as Ana starts, “Harold—”

“About a month ago,” Harold says, “I started hearing a voice in my head, narrating my life.  Accurately.  Very, very accurately.  As a matter of fact”—he smiles shyly at Ana—“entirely too accurately.  And while this was very distracting, and confusing, and annoying, it was okay, until the voice mentioned my imminent death.”

“Your what?” Ana sputters, the last trace of her smile vanishing instantaneously.

“I went to a shrink, who understandably told me I was crazy, but I knew I wasn’t crazy, so I ended up talking to an expert in literature, Professor Hilbert.  He was able to help me figure out that my narrator was Ms. Eiffel, which meant I had to track her down and beg her not to kill me.  I didn’t want to die, and I especially didn’t want to die now”—he stares into Ana’s eyes, imploring her to understand—“not when my life was just starting to become the one I’d always wanted and never dreamed it could be.”  Harold pauses, then adds, “Well, as you can see, she didn’t kill me.”

For a few moments, no one speaks.  Karen is thrown; she wasn’t expecting Harold to be so willing to tell them, just like that, as if their connection were not at all unusual.  But then she realizes that she knows why.  Harold loves Ana and Dave, and he doesn’t want to have secrets from them, come what may.  This thought causes Karen’s lip to tremble, and she bites down on it, determined not to be reduced to narcissistic blubbering.

Ana and Dave’s thoughts are more predictable, though less easily put into words.  Dave finally speaks.  “So that’s what you meant about a voice.  Well.  This is a mindfuck.”

Ana nods, before saying weakly, “Harold...did the doctors give you any pretty drugs that they really, really shouldn’t have?”

Harold shakes his head.  “No.  This started before that, just before we met.”

Ana bites her lip, not to keep from crying, but to buy herself time, to keep herself from saying something she might regret.  She loves this man, loves him with her heart and soul and baking repertoire, but the thought that their relationship has been controlled from the outset by a puppeteer, apart from being just congenitally insane, disturbs her profoundly.  “So...did she tell you to...um…”

Ana can’t finish the sentence and keep her voice even, but Harold knows what she is asking.  “She never told me anything that I wasn’t already thinking, about you.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Dave mutters, and Harold laughs.

“Exactly.  Ms. Eiffel’s voice came and went.  Sometimes it was there, sometimes it wasn’t, but when it was, it was exactly like that.  Harold Crick is head over heels in love with Ana Pascal; thank you, Captain Obvious.”

Ana cracks a smile, but she is still clearly too shocked to leave things at that.  “But technically...she can...change our lives?  Make things happen?  Is that why you’re severely injured instead of home with me now?”

Karen clears her throat.  “Actually, that’s exactly what I came to ask.  Harold, I couldn’t just rewrite the ending.  I had to rewrite everything, in order for the new ending to make sense.  And I became worried that my rewrites might somehow change your past, in a way that you might not want.  I was wondering if you could have a look at some of these drafts, just to make sure.  They’re not typed,” she adds hurriedly.

Harold nods.  “Sure.”

Karen tentatively crosses the room and hands Harold one of her papers, on which a typed reference to Harold walking unknowingly towards his death has been crossed out and replaced with a handwritten reference to Harold knowingly trying to prevent his death.  Harold smiles.  “I’ll read more if you like, Ms. Eiffel, but you don’t need to worry.  What you wrote—I mean what you wrote, not what you typed—is exactly what happened.”

  


*

  


  
For the second time, Professor Jules Hilbert is mentally bowled over by the sight of Karen Eiffel in his office.  He had been pleased with how their second non-date date had gone, but he wasn’t expecting to see her so soon.  His elation, however, vanishes when he registers her agitated expression.  “Is something wrong?” he asks, in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner.  It takes all the restraint he has not to add, “Please say you’re not about to start a speech with ‘I can’t see you anymore.’”

“I think I may have ruined things for them,” Karen says, uncomfortably aware that her hand has begun to shake.  “Harold and Ana, I mean.  Last night, Penny and I were discussing rewrites, and something she said made me wonder if I might be changing Harold’s past, so I went to see him, and Ana was there, and she recognized me—” Karen breaks off as Jules hurries towards her, stopping when they are just inches apart.  She takes a breath, tries and fails to pull herself together, and continues.  “Well, Harold told them.  Ana and Dave, that is; Dave was there, too.  My stupid, wonderful Harold just told them who I was, and how we knew each other, without a thought.”

This time, Jules is not so successful in replacing what he wants to say with something more normal.  Karen’s shaking hand and her uneven breaths overpower his sense of caution, and he says, “Would it be all right if I gave you a hug?”

“Er—” Karen is thrown; this is the last thing she expected Jules to say.  But the concern in his eyes, and the way it slowly gives way to nervous self-reproach with each nanosecond she takes to respond, makes her melt, and oh, of course she has imagined them embracing, and tenderly kissing, and taking a taxi back to his apartment to do much more, but her fantasies always take place a long way in the future and in any case do not involve distraught self-loathing requiring comfort.  But, seeing his very real fear, she nods.  “I suppose so, yes.”

Jules visibly relaxes, and, his own hands trembling a little, he closes the distance between them and carefully puts his arms around her.  He’d like to stroke her hair, but he knows not to push it, so his hands rest on her back, massaging it ever so slightly.  Karen hesitantly returns the hug, and he feels his breath catch in his throat as she rests her head against his neck.  “It’ll be okay,” he tells her, trying his hardest to sound confident.  “Their love is something special; you made sure of that.  They’ll get past this, and they’ll love each other more.”

Karen shivers, unconvinced.  She’d like to enjoy this, but the way she’s feeling now, it’s impossible.  She presses closer to him, but this is less for the reason he wishes it were and more just to keep herself a) standing up, and b) not running to the nearest convenience store to buy an alarming amount of cigarettes.  Jules is aware that right now, he’s just a substitute for those cigarettes, but he’ll take what he can get.  He begins to whisper into her ear.

“You know you could fix it,” he says, and she starts, “with just a few magical keystrokes.  But you won’t, because you know it’s wrong, and you don’t need to worry, because any expert in literature can tell you that they’re going to be okay.  They’re literally made for each other.”

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Karen whispers back.  “That’s exactly what disturbed her, I could tell.  The idea that some puppeteer had been playing games with their lives, that she and Harold only fell in love because I typed it out as meant to happen.”

“Well, of course they’re going to struggle with it, but in the end they’re going to decide it doesn’t matter, because they’re both a lot happier with each other than without each other.  They were in a tragedy; now it’s a comedy.”

Karen sighs, not the sigh of contentment that Jules would have liked her to sigh in his arms, but the sigh of resignation that unfortunately goes with the reason she is in his arms.  “I can only hope you’re right.  I can’t bear it otherwise.  There were so many reasons I couldn’t kill Harold Crick, but chief among them was that if anyone deserved a happy ending, he did.”

Jules nods.  “I know.  And I look forward to reading his comedy from start to finish.  Speaking of which, did you get an answer to your question, when you went over there?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you went over to the hospital because you thought your rewrites were changing Harold’s past.  Are they?”

“No.  As a matter of fact, so far they seem to be much closer to what actually happened.”

Now Jules sighs.  “Oh dear,” he murmurs, and he smiles as Karen lets out an involuntary chuckle, even though she sobers less than a second later.

Before either of them can say anything else, however, the phone rings.  Jules is happy to ignore it, but Karen ends their embrace, startled back to the reality that Jules is at work, and she has dropped by unannounced to take up what little time he has moaning about her problems.  He reluctantly takes this as his cue to answer the phone.  “Professor Jules Hilbert.”

The voice on the other end is brusque and unfamiliar.  “Professor Hilbert?  Penny Escher.  Is Kay with you?”

“Yes,” he replies.

“Well, sorry to interrupt whatever it is I may be interrupting, but she needs to come home now.  Ana Pascal is here.  Also, tell her she really needs to get a cell phone.”

Jules laughs.  “Will do,” he says, and hangs up.  He turns to Karen.  “That was your assistant.  She says that you need to head home because Ana Pascal is there, and that you really need to get a cell phone.”

Karen swallows.  All of her nerves erupt at the idea of facing Ana.  She has no idea what  she can possibly say to her, and she wishes Jules hadn’t hung up, so that she could have asked Penny what sort of mood Ms. Pascal seemed to be in, or more precisely how angry she was on a scale of one to run for your life.  She is suddenly more wired than after an entire pack of cigarettes, and she finds herself asking, against her will, “I don’t suppose you could come with me?”

Jules shakes his head sadly.  “I wish I could,” he replies, “partly because I’d like to play the hero and support you in your time of need, and also partly just to satisfy my own curiosity.  Unfortunately, I have three classes this afternoon, plus an evening shift at the pool.  But,” he adds, taking in Karen’s disconsolate and more than a little embarrassed face, “I could drop by after that, around nine o’clock, if that’s not too late for you.  We could order Chinese and split a bottle of wine.  How does that sound?”

Karen smiles in spite of herself.  “Penny and I had Chinese last night, but there’s a nice Indian place just around the corner.  Well, actually I’ve no idea if it’s nice at all, but it always looks full, which would seem a good indication.”

Jules smiles back at her.  “Works for me.  I’ll see you then.  Good luck.”

Karen fails to suppress a shudder, but she manages to nod.  “Thank you.”

  


*

  


  
Karen has been standing outside her apartment for five minutes now, willing herself to enter.  The snowfall outside has gotten heavier, but even the prospect of being able to take off her cold, wet sweater is not nearly sufficient encouragement.  She fumbles with her keys and drops them twice.  Then the door opens, because Penny has heard her.  Penny doesn’t say anything, and Karen forces herself over the threshold.  Ana is sitting in Penny’s usual chair, but she stands up when she sees Karen.

“Er—” Karen clears her throat.  “Hello, Ms. Pascal.”

To her surprise, Ana laughs.  “Ms. Eiffel, if you really created me, or at least Harold, I think you can call me Ana.”

“Er,” Karen starts again, wondering where her vocabulary has disappeared to, “yes.  I suppose.”

“I’m not gonna lie,” Ana continues, “this is still very, very weird for me, and part of me still thinks I’ve suffered a psychotic break, or Harold has, or we both have.  I—” she breaks off momentarily, then decides to press on.  “I just want to understand.”

“So do I,” Karen says, with feeling.  “I don’t know if it’s me, or this typewriter, or some cosmic force beyond understanding.  I’m afraid to write again.”

Ana swallows, visibly.  “Harold said you only wrote tragedies,” she says abruptly.  “Until now, anyway.  Why?”

Karen bites her lip.  “Those were the stories I had to tell.  Or at least, that’s what I always thought.  Penny thinks I was trying to vicariously kill myself, because my life had no joy.”

“That’s because you were,” Penny says, but she tries to keep her tone kind.

“Well,” Ana starts, suddenly feeling even more awkward, “I’m not a writer, but if I were, and my life had no joy, I would...well, okay, I can’t really know what I would do, so never mind.  Let me try this again.  If I had a friend who was a writer, whose life had no joy, I’d try to encourage her—or him—to write something joyful.”

“Art as a form of self-therapy,” Karen muses.  “Write the story you wish you could live.  It’s not a bad idea, unless the writer is so far gone that thinking of death becomes something...not joyful, but the nearest substitute.”

“Well,” Ana says, “I wouldn’t be much of a friend, would I, if I didn’t also bring over a joyful plate of cookies to aid the writing process.  Which I must admit I haven’t, because like I said, I’m still feeling incredibly messed up, but in theory, anyway.”

“It’s your mission,” Karen says thoughtfully.  “You make the world a better place with cookies, and you make your own life better, too, through this particular art.  You bake when you’re happy, because it helps you celebrate, but you also bake when you’re sad, because it helps you cope.”

Ana sighs.  “I am never going to get used to this whole you-knowing-everything-about-me thing,” she says, but Karen’s flushing, guilty face makes Ana feel sorry for her in spite of herself, so she nods.  “But yes.  If you had killed Harold, I would have been baking and eating compulsively when not sobbing into my pillow.  Except maybe not, because I’ve spent a lot of time being sad, but losing him would have broken my heart.  Nothing’s ever done that before, so maybe I would have taken it like you and developed a ten-year case of bakers’ block.”

Karen shakes her head.  “No,” she says, “no.  You would have grieved and sobbed and maybe lost your touch for a while, but you would have been strong.  You’ve spent your life thinking of other people, and caring for them, and trying to make their lives better without a thought for yourself.  People remember these things, all these little things.  If you fell, you’d have a whole throng of people waiting to catch you, and hold you, and try to make things just a little bit better for you, after all you’ve done for them.  They would all be there to help you be strong.”  Karen pauses, then adds sadly, “All I’ve ever done for humanity is remind everyone how miserable they are.”

Ana feels a lump growing in her throat.  She swallows carefully, then says, “No.  Well, maybe yes, if you want to put it that way, but the world needs writers to write tragedies as well as comedies.  We can’t truly know joy if we don’t know grief.  And if no one is pointing out the evils of the world, who among us with means, blissfully free of those evils, is going to realize there are improvements to be made?  Not to mention the fact that real people are suffering, and people like you help them to know that they’re not alone.  In a way, you save people.  The problem is, you’ve got to save yourself, too.”

Karen’s eyes widen, and she feels a rush of affection for this woman, who may be her creation but is somehow insightful far beyond what she can conceive.  “How—” she starts, then breaks off.  She takes a ragged breath, and then asks quietly, “How would you suggest I do that?”

Ana smiles, and she gestures toward the typewriter.  “Give yourself a break, Ms. Eiffel.  Write something happy.  You don’t have to publish it.  Write something that makes you laugh, or failing that, write something that will make someone else laugh.  After all,” she adds, in a tone that is meant to be playfully accusatory, but ends up being more ordinarily accusatory than she would have liked, “I know a guy you landed in the hospital for months on end who could do with a good laugh.”

“I suppose I could try,” Karen says, her voice hesitant.  She has never tried to write a happy story.  “But there’s still the question of how this happened.  What if I inadvertently create more living people, or steal someone’s life?  How can I know?”

Ana considers this.  “Well, maybe, for the sake of experiment, don’t invent your own characters this time.  Use ones who already exist and are most definitely fictional.  You couldn’t make people like that real, could you?”

Karen bites her lip.  “Are you suggesting I write fanfiction?”  She’s never been fond of the idea of fanfiction, as the few stories she’s come across based on her novels all seem to involve their writers sticking their fingers in their ears and blithely ignoring her main characters’ deaths, rendering the novels utterly without meaning, or so she thought at the time.  Now, though, she begins to wonder if she might be indebted to these scattered few people, if somehow, somewhere, their works have brought hope to those from whom she had cruelly taken it.  Well, the ones who can spell, anyway.

Ana laughs.  “No, I wasn’t, though you certainly could,” she says, her expression finally starting to resemble the warm, pleasant one with which she greets her customers.  “I meant using popular icons.  Universally recognized characters whose stories are always being retold in some form.  Try writing a fairy tale, or a Christmas story.  Something like that, that can’t be real, and then go back to your own stuff when we’re all sure that nothing like this can ever, ever happen again.”

Karen bites her lip.  She has to admit it’s not a bad idea, but she has no clue what she might write.  Fairy tales, Christmas stories, and their ilk are simply not her style.  She turns away and stares out the window, where a full-blown snowstorm is brewing.  She looks down at a small group of children playing in the snow, and then, suddenly, the idea is there, fully formed, in her mind. She turns back to Ana and smiles at her.  Just a month ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who dared to suggest anything even half so silly.  Now, she thinks the feeling inside her at the prospect of beginning this experiment might, just might, be something resembling joy.  She nods, and Ana smiles.

“Uh-oh,” Penny says, looking at Ana.  “I know that face.  You may have created a monster, Ms. Pascal.”

  


*

  


  
Jules arrives at nine o’clock, covered in snow, wine bottle in hand, anxious for Karen’s sake, and hoping for his own sake that the Indian place isn’t so full that it will take an hour for their food to be delivered.  He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but the radiant, happy Karen who greets him is definitely not it.

“What happened?” he asks her.  He tries and fails to suppress a smile of his own; the one on her face is contagious.  “Or maybe I should ask who you are and what you’ve done with Karen Eiffel.  I take it your meeting with Ana wasn’t so painful after all?”

Karen nods and tries to put her face in order, well-aware of how silly she looks.  “Ana just wanted to understand,” she says, carefully closing the door behind Jules, who hurriedly takes off his hat and coat.  “She was very kind, which I of all people ought to have predicted.  We talked about writing and baking, tragedy and comedy, and the need to bring joy into our own lives.  She suggested I try writing something utterly ridiculous, just to make myself laugh.”  Karen takes in Jules’ still-bewildered look, and adds, “Well, it wasn’t bad advice.”

Jules carefully sets the wine bottle down on Karen’s desk.  “I can see that.  But what about the fundamental problem that was preventing you from writing anything?”

Karen smiles.  “She had a solution for that as well.  She told me to write something that couldn’t be real, something hopelessly unoriginal and in the realm of the fantastic, if possible.”

Jules smiles in spite of himself.  Karen Eiffel writing not only comedy, but fantasy?  “So what did you write?” he asks, trying to peer at a small sheaf of papers on her desk.

Karen blushes.  “I’m not sure I want to tell you that.”

Jules shakes his head.  He folds his arms, but is careful to keep his smile in place, so as not to alarm her.  “Oh no.  You don’t get to leave it at that.  That’s just not fair.”

Karen shakes her own head, and backs up towards her desk, trying only too obviously to conceal the papers.  “You’ll laugh at me.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“The point would be to laugh with me, but you won’t do that.  The mere combination of title and author in the header will send you into hysterics.”

Jules shakes his head again, and for the second time in one day, he walks right up to her and intentionally invades her personal space.  He places one hand over hers and says, in a tone he hopes is both warm and serious, “I promise I won’t laugh at you.”

Karen shakes her head again, but she can feel her resistance weakening, as his touch is having the distracting effect on her that he undoubtedly hoped it would.  “You will.  You know you will.  It’s one of the rules of literature.  Anyone who ever promises not to laugh at something immediately breaks that promise.  You know that.”

“I won’t laugh.  I swear to you, I won’t laugh.”  He punctuates this by squeezing her hand.

“Fine,” Karen says.  Without removing her hand from his, she sinks into her desk chair, resigned to her fate.  Jules takes a look at the papers beside the typewriter.

“‘Frosty the Snowman,’ by Karen Eiffel,” he reads aloud, and then immediately, with appropriate shame, bursts into uncontrollable laughter.  Karen folds her arms indignantly, but she realizes, to her shock, that she is too happy to be properly angry with him.  “It’s perfect,” he gasps.  “A happy Christmas story that still manages to feature a protagonist who knows he’s going to die.  Sign this for me, will you?  I’m holding an instant classic.”

“And I’d like to be holding garlic nan,” Karen says, but she can’t repress her smile.  “Fine.  Read it.  I’ll call the restaurant.  What do you want?”

“I was in the mood for chicken korma,” Jules replies, “but I may have to settle for just plain rice.  I wouldn’t want to spill anything on this priceless work you have here.”

Karen lightly shoves him, without really thinking about it.  The significance of this, however, is not lost on Jules, whose eyes light up at her casual touch, which just yesterday he would have considered weeks away, if not months.  He lightly shoves her back, and her glowing eyes meet his.

He wants to kiss her, but he’s not sure if he dares.  His hand rests just above her waist, and for a moment, they stare at each other.  Karen’s heart is pounding, and her breaths come in uneven gasps.

She’s not ready for this.  Putting her own spin on “Frosty” was a balm, not a cure.  She’s not ready for this kind of intensity.  She wants to be, desperately, but right now it scares her as much as it thrills her.  “I’ll call the restaurant,” she says at last, and Jules nods, not quite successfully hiding his disappointment, but making a noble effort.  He withdraws his hand, and she retreats into the kitchen.

“Yes, I’d like to order delivery,” Karen says into the phone. “Aloo palak with garlic nan, and chicken korma with rice—”

The heavily accented voice on the other end interrupts her.  “We’re not delivering right now, sorry.”

“Er, excuse me, but I have your take-out menu here, and it clearly says you deliver until midnight.  I live just around the corner—”

“We do, ma’am, but the streets are closed off.  Haven’t you heard the news?  Some kind  of living snowman came barreling through here with a bunch of kids following?  Scared the shit out of the traffic officer on duty?”

Karen puts the phone down, her face white, wishing she owned a television.  “Jules?” she asks, her voice trembling.  “Do you have your laptop with you, by any chance?”

Jules nods, too engrossed in her story to notice her tone and grinning, appropriately, like a kid on Christmas.  “In my briefcase.  Password is ‘go away,’ space included.”

“Thank you,” Karen replies.  She crosses the room and extricates Jules’ laptop from his briefcase, no mean feat when her hands are shaking uncontrollably.  She doesn’t have Internet service, but she knows Penny was able to access it somehow.  The laptop connects automatically to a neighbor’s unsecured network, and she pulls up the local news.

It’s just as she fears: sometime this afternoon, Frosty the Snowman came to life and caused a stir.  And even though the sun was in no way hot that day, it managed to be, for him.  As Harold Crick might say, it had no choice.  “Jules,” she says, and this time he can’t mistake the seriousness of her tone.  He looks up and sees her ashen face, and she wordlessly passes him his laptop.

“Holy fucking hell,” he says, and then he sees Karen crumple against the wall, looking stricken.  “Hey,” he says softly, hurrying towards her.  “Hey.  It’s okay.  It’s over.”

“I just killed yet another person,” Karen says, her voice beginning to break.  “It was supposed to be a silly, joyful story, and look what I’ve done.”

This time, Jules doesn’t bother to ask permission.  He sits down next to her and wraps his arm around her.  She slumps over and buries her face in his chest, and this time he does stroke her hair.  “It is a joyful story,” he says.  “It’s a delightful comedy, one of the best I’ve had the privilege to read in a very long time.  Didn’t you read those kids’ statements to the police?  You gave them the thrill of their lives.  Your Frosty, like the classic Frosty, was a man who knew he was going to die and resolved to make sure that every second leading up to his melting was spent making children happy.  You brought them joy, Karen.  You gave them a wonderful night that they’ll never forget, conveniently caught on television news cameras so that no skeptical parents can insist they imagined it.  If some police officer was frightened, that’s his loss and no concern of yours.”

“I killed someone,” Karen chokes out.  Jules can feel her tears on his shirt.

“No, you didn’t,” he says firmly.  “Frosty the Snowman is a fictional character.  He can’t be real, Karen; he’s a living pile of snow.  But you let him be real.  You gave him the privilege of life.  I wouldn’t advise doing it again, of course, but you did nothing wrong here and you should be happy.  You should be happy that you made those children happy, and happy that you made yourself happy.  You might also be annoyed that you won’t be getting any Indian food for your troubles, but as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

At that, Karen simultaneously smiles and cries harder.  “I want to believe you,” she sputters between sobs.

“Well, I’ve got an idea,” Jules says, “that I hope will both convince you and solve our great mystery.  That news report is updated constantly.  I want you to start writing your version of ‘Frosty Returns,’ but I want you to use my laptop.  Or any other laptop, or a public computer, whatever you want—just not that typewriter.”

Karen looks up at him, her face tear-stained and her eyes red.  “Are you out of your mind?” she asks him.  “I can’t write more!”

“Yes, you can,” he replies, “and you have to.  It’s the only way we can know.  You’re going to get up, you’re going to blow your nose, you’re going to wash your hands, and then you’re going to sit down with my laptop and write a paragraph.  Just one little paragraph, that’s all.”

Karen hiccups loudly.  “I can’t do it,” she whispers.

Jules places his hands on her shoulders.  “Yes, you can,” he insists, and his eyes are so bright, so free of angst, that Karen manages to believe him, just for now.  She stands up, blows her nose, washes her hands, and sits down with his laptop.

“Just one paragraph?” she asks, her voice hoarse.

“Just one paragraph,” he reassures her.  She takes a deep breath and begins to type.  The paragraph writes itself with breakneck speed.  “Okay,” he says, “now sit back and relax.  Or better yet, look through for your refrigerator for something we can eat, and tell me where you keep your wine opener.”

Karen nods.  “In the top drawer, with the silverware,” she says, pointing towards it.  “I think I might have cheese and crackers, somewhere,” she adds, and stands up to look for them.

“Sounds good, though I’ll admit that at this point, dead bugs wouldn’t sound too bad.”

Karen manages to laugh at that.  She finds the cheese and crackers sooner than she expects to; clearly Penny has spent some time organizing her kitchen.  She also finds plates and glasses sooner than she expects to, and so she awkwardly carries everything back into her office, and sets it down on her desk.  “There you are,” she says.

“Look,” Jules says, pointing at the news story.  “I just refreshed the page.  Nothing happened.  It’s the typewriter, Karen.”

Karen opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.  “How is that possible?” she asks, though at this point, she’ll believe anything.

Jules smiles at her.  “I remembered something you said at the bakery yesterday.  You wondered aloud if it was you, or if your typewriter decided it sympathized with Harold’s wristwatch entirely too much.”

“That was a joke; Harold’s wristwatch was just a gimmick—” Karen starts, but then she stops, as it all finally clicks into place.  Her eyes grow wider than she thinks ought to be possible, and her jaw drops.  

Like Harold, she had been leading a joyless life.  Like Harold’s wristwatch, her typewriter was sick of it.

There must have been some magic in that old machine she kept, for when she pressed down on its keys, Harold Crick began to count.  Stupid, wonderful Harold, her masterpiece of reality, too real not to be real, and so strong, stronger than either he or his creator ever dreamed he would be.  Harold, who found the strength to die just when he loved his life most, because he couldn’t not save that little boy.  Harold Crick, whom she could not kill, came to life, and without knowledge or intention, inspired her to seek the strength to live.

It wasn’t Harold alone, of course.  With Harold Crick came Ana Pascal, who in daring to also be real has now willfully taken it upon herself to steer Karen onto a path of joy, a move that her typewriter clearly supports.  It must identify with Ana as well as Harold’s wristwatch, Karen thinks, taking good intentions to a dangerous extreme.  And then there’s Penny, who with her quiet perception and will of steel is perhaps the only person on Earth who could have ever convinced Karen to quit smoking.  Without the conundrum that was Harold, Karen would never have met Penny.

And, of course, she would never have met Jules, either.  She read his letters, and loved his letters, but never answered them.  For a moment she can’t believe she was disconnected from the entire concept of joy that she never answered those wondrous letters.

Her face breaking into a smile, and tears of joy coursing down her cheeks, Karen launches herself at Jules and embraces him, pressing her tear-soaked cheek against his.  He’s startled, of course, but he’s certainly not complaining.  He hugs her tightly, and she whispers in his ear.  “You’re right,” she says.  “You’re absolutely right.  And so it was, a typewriter saved Karen Eiffel, by propelling me, out of its sheer frustration, into the immitigable path of fate.”

And then, punch-drunk without even a swallow of wine, she pulls back slightly and stares into his eyes.  He stares back into hers, and with her face wet and red from crying, it is hardly a poetic moment for a kiss.  It is, however, the right moment, and they lean in simultaneously. When they break apart, for a moment all they can do is stare at each other, smile, and radiate joy.

But only for a moment, because their stomachs waste no time in reminding them how hungry they are. “Let’s eat,” Jules says, and Karen laughs.

“Yes, let’s,” she agrees, taking one of his hands in hers.  And while wine and cheese and crackers are hardly Bavarian sugar cookies, she nonetheless feels, just as Harold did, that everything is finally going to be all right.


End file.
